


Constriction

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Corsetry, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, One Shot, mistress/maid relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:45:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Self-restraint prevents a bittersweet kiss.





	Constriction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beccarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccarc/gifts).



> First of all, this is a gift for my dear friend, @Becca_RC, who slid this prompt my way many moons ago. Rather than developing a convent, I decided to take a pseudo-historical route where I focus on no accuracies and instead, focus on a minor intimacy between two women. Maybe there will be a sequel. Happy Birthday, Becca!

 

In the early dawn, a solitary woman rises. As mistress of the house, Joan Ferguson oversees her estate. She lights an array of ivory candles that drip wax in due time. Sweeping aside the velvet curtain, she solemnly stares out her window, her obsidian stare devouring the grey landscape that has yet to promise the sun's appearance.

A knock at her bedroom door disturbs her thoughts.

“Enter,” she declares in a swift, concise manner.

Soft footsteps pad across the room. Timidly, the mouse enters the lion's den. Maid, Vera Bennett, holds a silver tray in hand with tinted blue china. Steam slithers out the spout. Demure, hands quiver as she sets down the tray on the center table.

“Oh, um... G-good morning, Miss Ferguson.”

A slight stutter accentuates her speech. Even now, despite working for the impervious Joan Ferguson after two years, nerves get the best of her. She bows her head, stormy eyes downcast though she cannot help but to gawk at the beauty of her superior.

A silver-spun man frames pale cheeks, thin lips parted ever so slightly as she breathes in the crisp, morning air.

“How many times must I tell you? Call me Joan.”

Glancing sidelong, she catches a glimpse of Vera's profile. Chestnut curls are pulled back into a bun, hidden by the cap. She dresses in off-white, a vow to purity and to her position. A half-smirk unfurls across Joan's lips – slight, but prominent.

She trusts no one else to make her tea.

Vera's touch is far from tainted.

There are no angels in this house though Joan suspects Vera may be as close as they come.

In her dark nightgown, she strolls towards her wardrobe. Today's dress lies in wait. Gradually, Joan pulls back her hair. Long, slender fingers spill through silk that's turned to grey in recent years. She twists her mane into a functional bun, its fate held together by a plethora of bobby pins.

Meanwhile, dutiful Vera fixes her tea just the way she prefers it – one cube of sugar and little else.

“I, um, I, erm, know... Habit; I am _sorry_ , Joan.”

“No need for your apologies,” she quips.

The hopelessly devoted offers her a porcelain mug. She purses her lips. Blows on the noxious heat that rises to the surface. She sips, well aware of the eyes upon her.

“Sit. Your tea will cool, Vera.”

Casting the Devil's cup aside, Mother Superior adjusts her appearance in the mirror. There's no sin in maintaining an immaculate front. This isn't vanity; it's rigid order.

Her attention returns to the coffin dress in the closet. This shell keeps her from Heaven and Hell. They may as well be imprisoned by God. One shoulder at a time, she slips out of her dressing gown. Pale shoulders gleam, more luminous than the moon, but perhaps that's merely Vera's intrusion – the younger woman has a poor habit of romanticizing.

Before she wears that midnight tomb, she turns to the corset meant to shape her silhouette.

“Your assistance is required,” Joan drawls. Tongue strikes the roof of her mouth, accompanied by a deep hum.

“Yes, of course.”

With a nod, Vera rises. She retrieves the corset. The art of corsetry is a daunting prison to behold. For her mistress, she goes through the task of lacing a series of crosses: x, x, x. That's how the ribbon goes. Pretty lace feeds into the grommets until only perfection suits the formidable Joan Ferguson.

Standing behind the significantly taller woman, she wraps the corset around her hourglass. The underlayer of fabric protects her soft underbelly. The knobs position themselves in the front, the lace streaming down her broad back.

She closes the busk, ties the lace, and tightens with a harsh yank.

Joan doesn't make a sound while nimble fingertips trace over her spine, the touch restricted by the soft layer of fabric that separates them. When the underbust is tightened, her breath hitches. Breasts heave. Her right eye twitches as her brow arches. She doesn't give away the pain; that's weakness.

Delicately, Vera runs her hands along her sides, lingering above her hips.

Neither speak.

“Better?” Vera asks, her reflection looks up at the one she adores.

This goes unsaid.

Joan notices.

“Vera, retrieve the dress.”

And so, she does.

Rigid sleeves entrap toned biceps and muscular forearms. The sleeves end in trimmed lace that hint at femininity though the angular shoulders speak of masculinity. A high collar threatens to choke, mimicking the cruel sensation of a noose. With the long train, Vera falls to her knees to shake out the hem and to smooth out the day's labor of wrinkles.

Joan clenches her jaw. Liar's hands come together, her poise delicate and near statuesque. At last, she looks away from their conjoined reflection.

“Come,” Joan demands.

As always, Vera scampers behind. In time, she'll catch up to match that graceful stride.

A killing hand sweeps along her devotee's shoulder, down the curve of a fragile, foolish spine.

Self-restraint prevents a bittersweet kiss.

Instead, heady breath ghosts across Vera's neck in this timeless dance of death.

Lashes flutter in anticipation of the fall.

“There is work to be done.”

Her ribs are not the only thing that _aches_.

 


End file.
